3

 1500

I don't know if I can put an exact date on when I first started using. There's no critical catalyst, no major event in my life the precipitated my decline into substance abuse. Mine was a gradual decline, spurred mostly by hedonism. I've since come to learn that I'm a hyper-responder. Simply put, where the majority of people have a cut off point, I don't. I have no upper limit. I can't blame my parents. They were present and loving in every way. My father was a little absent at times, but he was never abusive, not even verbally. And I can't blame my tendency to over indulge to the point of blackout on a lack of parenting. I know many people turned to the powders and the liquids to fill a hole inside. I have no such hole. As of today I have been on the wagon for one year, three months and five days. I hope for a day to come where I no longer count by the day, or by the week, month, or year. I hope to arrive at a day where I simply state I don't drink or do drugs, and leave it at that. The most difficult is alcohol. Not doing drugs makes sense. The majority agree narcotics are bad. Alas, the majority seem to think that alcohol in moderation is fine. The internet is full of articles claiming that a glass or two of wine a day is net beneficial to health. A claim that is wholly refutable and immediately debunked when an iota of logic is applied to it this veil of pseudo-logic. There are definitely positive effects to alcohol, I don't dispute that, but the plethora of bad that comes with the good by far outweighs the short term benefits. If alcohol was a balance sheet, it would permanently be in the red. Alcohol relaxes the mind immediately at the cost of destroying the body inevitably. 'Renee, are you okay?' I say into my cell, hoping she will reply in a light hearted voice that she's just calling to check-in to say everything is going fine. But the nerve chilling silence that follows tells me all is not well. 'Renee, talk to me, I can hear you breathing.' There's another moment of silence followed by what sounds like Renee wiping her nose, then her weak voice speaks. 'I think I'm going to use.' My stomach sinks at the mention of the word use. I know exactly where Renee is. I know exactly how she feels. Helpless. Lost. In so much pain she's willing to do something she knows will destroy her in the long run just for a moment of temporary respite. An escape. An off switch. It's my job to convince her otherwise. I know the futility of trying to talk her out of this mindset over the phone. Words alone will not quiet her inner demons. If I'm going to save her from herself I know I need to be with her in the flesh. But that means being late to work, that means losing my job, that means a whole hell of problems. There's no debate. No questioning my priorities. If I let Renee use, she could end up dead. I know that were it not for the kindness of my sponsor I couldn't have made it as far as I have. 'You're not going to use Renee.' I say in a firm reassuring tone. 'Where are you?' Renee takes a deep breath then says in a mouse-like voice, 'I think it's called Cafe-Nate.' 'That shitty diner by the airport?' I ask. 'Yeah.' Renee says back. I know the cafe. I know it well. It's a rundown shit hole. Not a place to frequent. But it does offer a warm environment with a cheap bottomless cup of coffee and staff who don't look down on you. Who don't ask questions. No matter how dishevelled you may be. 'Here's what you're going to do Renee, you're going to sit tight until I get there. You're not going to speak to anyone. You're not going to look at anyone. Have you got a coffee?' 'Yeah.' 'Good. I want you to stare into your coffee until you find its soul. Wait for me.' I end the call without saying goodbye. I've found with Renee that it's easier that way. Give her a directive and she'll follow it. Keep it simple. All I need right now is for her to stay where she is until I get there. If she gets up and starts to wander, leaves the diner, walks the street, then she's gone. I notice that I'm white-knuckle gripping the steering wheel. I loosen my grip. No benefit to being tense right now. I sit up and look ahead, willing there to be a sudden break in the traffic that blocks the road before me. It's not to be. The traffic is molasses thick, moving so slowly I'm sure there's been some sort of accident up ahead that is causing a bottleneck. My rearview mirror shows a trail of cars behind me reaching as far as the eye can see. I'm hemmed in. The nearest exit isn't for at least two miles. Moving at this snail pace it will be too late. Renee will have grown bored of staring at her coffee. She'll give up. Her mind will return to the warm thought of the temporary release from pain that heroin brings. The quiet of mind. The calmness of body. Finally, the ability to drift away. I can't let that happen. My sight drifts the traffic on the opposite side of the highway. There the three lanes are comparatively sparse. The few cars that pass do so at breakneck speeds. That's where I need to be. There is a median strip of concrete about eight inches tall that delineates the divide between each side of the freeway. I check my rearview mirror again, no change there. I glance ahead again, no change there. I'm currently in the middle of the three lanes. I wave to the driver of the car to my right, gesturing with my hands if it's possible to slip in front of them. They seem annoyed by my request, but they let me do it. When I'm in the lane that abuts the median strip I wave a thank you to the driver who let me in. I watch the traffic moving in the opposite direction. It seems to move in pulses. A cluster of cars followed by a gap in the traffic followed by another cluster of cars. I grip the steeringwheel tighter as I ready myself to make the move. The moment the last of the cluster of cars passes, I spin the wheel and slam the gas, guiding my car over the eight inch median strip. I hear the distinct sound of metal grating against concrete as I make the turn. A chorus of horns from behind me blare their disapproval of my illegal turn, but their concern is the last of mine right now. A solitary car speeding down the highway slams their breaks and swerves to avoid me. When safely past they also pound their horn to signal their annoyance. I hit the gas, trying to get up to speed as fast as I can. The last thing I want is to get rear ended after completing such a manoeuvre. I've no doubt that what I just did was recorded on someone's dash-cam. Technology is pervasive. It's everywhere. At all times. Trying to do anything even remotely against the law is very hard these days. Not that I'm an advocate for reckless driving. Far from it. I'd normally consider myself a safe, considerate driver. But right now, saving Renee from herself is far more important. I think about what I put my sponsor through. All the phone calls late at night. The random times during the day. Without the support of others there's no way in hell I'd have been able to stay inebriant free for this long. Support groups are incredibly important. It's isolation that leads to the internalisation and looping of thoughts. These loop thoughts always spiral deep down, returning to the place of habit. Old habits die hard for a reason. They're ingrained in us, programmed to be a part of us, in a way like our DNA. But it is possible to create new habits, it's just not easy and requires resilience and staying power. But it's worth it. When I think back to how I used to be, all that I used to do to my body, it's almost like I see stranger. I don't recognise my former self, I can't comprehend how I could have been that way. It's taken over a year to find that clarity. Renee, on the other hand is only a few weeks into her journey. And as anyone who has been there, the first month, that's the hardest. It's no cake-walk after that, but those first few weeks, when every cell in your body cries out for satiation, that's the hardest. I change gear and hit the accelerator. Wait for me Renee, I'm coming. Just wait. 

The traffic in the direction she’s heading is as thick as an 80’s McDonalds thickshake when they used ‘digestible’ plastic as a thickening agent. 

The lane going in the opposite direction, however, has sparse, freely flowing traffic. Only problem is there’s an eight inch concrete median strip. 

Susan doesn’t hesitate. When there’s a break in the on-coming traffic she spins her wheel, pounds the gas and crashes over that concrete divide, shedding a hail of sparks as she goes. 

Susan hammers the gas causing a bunch of those Christmas presents to slide off the backseat to the floor. 

One in particular is a pretty damn fancy looking electronic spaceship. It plays its intergalactic theme tune which, chance would have it, is strangely befitting for the moment.